Painted It Red
by DisneyNerds
Summary: Sterek/Fem!Stiles AU:The Alphas took something of theirs, something clean, and painted it red. Staining it in their color. He brought it back, to repair the damage. Stiles is kidnapped by the Alpha Pack and Derek brings her back to the loft. He finds she put up with a lot more than they thought, and tries to make up for it. Inspired by the unknown amazing fan art in the img box


"Derek. Derek, I seriously think you can stop running now. We lost the alphas, like, 30 blocks back."

The dead serious, as always, Hale pack Alpha continued to burn pavement through creepily deserted alleyways, hopping over the occasional roof, and ignored Stiles' observation. The neverending pounding of leather booted feet on asphalt was very uncomfortable for her, being jostled over and over while sitting in Derek's arms. Lydia might've swooned in her position, but the situation was anything but romantic. Midnight had long since passed, and the predawn gray encompassed the clouded sky. Really ominous looking, if you asked her. The tense quiet and overall edge emanating from her companion was just icing to the gloom and doom cake.

Taking his silence as a wordless command to shut up, she tried to hum the Star Wars movie score in her head to take her mind off of the burning spreading throughout her back. Duhhh, duhhh, da da da duhhhh duhhh, da da da duhhhhh duhhh, da da da Duuuhhhh…

So, when that didn't work (and who was she kidding, really. She hadn't had an adderall in, what? Two weeks?), Stiles attempted to once again engage in some kind of communication with the brooding wolf. "Dude, are you planning on trying out for the Summer Olympics, cause I think you'd have any Kenyan running for his money. Haha, get it? Running, cause Kenyans are really fast-"

"Stiles," His voice was a harsh grunt interjected between pants of breath, "I swear to God if you don't shut up right now, I'll drop your ass right here and not look back."

She chuckled under her breath, blowing a stray brown hair from her eyes. "Well, wouldn't that pretty much put a damper on the whole plan, considering you came to break me out? Leaving me behind might throw you a tiny bit off schedule."

The glare he responded with was enough to shut her up.

"Where are we even going?" She asked when he kicked open the side entrance (which she was almost sure had a dead bolt) to a stone building. The impact that shuddered through his arms sent a jolt of fresh pain down her entire body. She clenched her jaw with enough force that her teeth ground. Derek carried her out of the dim alley as another cloud rolled across the sky, blanketing the sun. Her anxiety manifested in her hand gripping the black fabric of his shirt as a low pitched roar rose from the distance.

"Isaac, Peter, and Cora are watching the loft." Derek refused to meet her eyes, instead focusing only on climbing the multiple flights of tight stairwells. She noticed he made sure to avoid bumping her feet or head on the walls. "It seemed like the safest bet. Not that anywhere is really safe." Reaching the top of the steps, he shoved the door open with his shoulder. "but they won't get in again."

The awkward pair arrived, somewhat breathless, at the large studio. Stiles didn't fuss when Derek settled her stiffly on the lone rough couch in the corner of the room. The space felt very empty and oh so vulnerable when he vanished around the corner. Her eyes couldn't help but be drawn towards the red alarm light on the wall that could go off at any moment. The werewolf, who had disappeared after depositing her on the sofa, returned with a blanket and a fresh shirt. She had to wonder how he could give up one of his precious henleys. The dude had to be sponsored by American Apparel or something, he had so many.

"Thanks." She mumbled. The air between them felt thick. It had been a while since the two had been alone together, sans Scott or any annoying Hale relatives.

Damn, she had to show some respect to the two, as they were apparently part of her makeshift secret service troop. Could've used them a little earlier though.

Stiles didn't bother to wait for Derek to leave, really too tired and impatient to care, before she eased off her dark red flannel shirt, some of the color actually being her own blood. Oh, gross. Her normally plain tank top looked even worse, stained crimson in blotchy spatters on the front and back. Her hesitancy appeared when it came to removing the white fabric.

She hoped to discreetly turn her back away from the brooding alpha leaning against the column opposite her, who had conveniently concentrated all his werewolf-enhanced senses on the worse-for-wear teenager. He didn't seem to catch the movement, and she released an internal sigh. No rabid lycan tonight.

She slipped the torn hem above her head, hair falling down in a brown tangle around her neck.

"What is that?"  
Derek's green eyes darkened, nostrils flared, and Stiles froze. He stepped forward.

She twisted her head to look over her shoulder.

Damn strategically placed mirrors.

"Derek, it's nothin- SHIT! Derek, stop!"

Ignoring her cries, he roughly grabbed onto her exposed shoulder, forcing her body forward. Stiles couldn't see past her curtain of hair currently in her face, but she heard the sharp intake of breath.

It wasn't a pretty sight.

Sure, she had the bruises and claw marks expected from being an Alpha pack's human chew toy. Some of them were still a fresh scarlet, you know, just the one time kicks out of annoyance by her witty remarks. She had good days. Then there were the dark purple wounds (think rotten eggplants), laced with deep gashes. Those were when Stiles threw out one too many "bad dog" comments, and paid for it with hours of beating. Seriously, they made Gerard look like the little old grandmother from Red Riding Hood.

But bruises and cuts weren't new to Wolfland.

No, Derek was examining the still bleeding symbol carved into Stiles' shoulderblade. An ugly abomination of his triskele, whose smooth and fluid spirals invoked harmony and balance. Alpha, beta, and omega. The crime against wolvlihood marked themselves with a twisted copy of the image, which looked more like feet that were freakishly suspended in a constant run. The crude lines imposed fear and apprehension, and now it was permanently engraved into her freckled skin. And here she thought she hated Scott's tattoo. What a dumbass mistake.

She shivered in surprise when she felt Derek's finger brush the wound. The movement of his hands on her skin, exploring the extent of her injuries, refamiliarizing himself with the costs of being human. A low grunt rose from his throat, sounding like disgust. Stiles was sure if the metallic smell of blood bothered her, it must have been overwhelming for his super strength nose.

"Which one was it? Kali? The Twins?"

She paused before answering. "All of them. Used those dirty ass nails too." She muttered, shrugging. "Hey, at least they didn't sign their names. 'Deucalion' would've hurt like a bitch."

Derek shoved her back against the couch, eyes bright red. He was using that glare that he reserved only for those who supremely pissed him off (so Stiles had seen it a lot). But this one was particularly furious.

"Is this some kind of joke to you?" The words burned her just about as bad as the injuries on her body. "It would be real nice if, for once, you took things seriously. I mean, that pack pretty much marked their territory on your skin, Stiles! God, if you're this stupid, maybe I should have left you to deal with those psychopaths yourself."

"You think I don't know to be serious?" It was hard to be intimidating against a six-foot, buffed-out werewolf while you're in a Batman bra and jeans, but Stiles didn't give two shits as she stood up, forcing Derek back a few paces. "How's this for serious? I was 1) kidnapped from my jeep, which is now wrecked, in the middle of the night," she counted off her fingers venomously, "2) held and interrogated in some bacteria infested, dark-ass hell hole for almost two weeks, not to mention beaten to crap about every day! And oh! God forbid I forget the fact that I unwillingly received about the worst tattoo-a-la wolf in Beacon Hills!"

Her rage felt good as she could ignore the irritation on her back and the strain she was putting on her battered body just by standing. Plus, the shock on Derek's face as she vented was satisfying. At least she could scare one werewolf.

"So yeah Derek, I'll make all the dumbass remarks I can, if it means it'll take my mind off of being inches away from possibly the worst panic attack I've ever had! I mean, Jesus Christ! I don't see how you can deal with being beaten to shit in every fight you get into!" She laughed humorlessly, "Oh yeah, forgot the whole wolf magical healing thing. Well guess what?" She jabbed a finger into her own chest. "Human. And this human is tired, sore as hell, and ready to pass out on that lumpy sack of crap you call a couch. Okay?"

Instead of replying like a normal person and leaving her in peace (what did she expect), he grabbed her by the wrist, and threw her effortlessly over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

"Really, Derek!? Enough with the manhandling!" Her wound cried out in pain, and as she tried to maneuver her body to ease the discomfort, Derek shifted his grip, relieving some of the ache.

A second later, he deposited her on the middle of his bed, her small body sinking into the much larger comforter. His eyes demanded that she stay put as he once again left her alone in the loft. Scuffling and rummaging in the next room over spiked her curiosity and she leaned forward on the mattress to peek around the corner. The ancient bed springs groaned under her weight. Derek's face peered in from the hallway, eyebrows raised. She lifted her hands in surrender and settled back into her seat.

The bedroom wasn't even a bedroom itself. Derek's little privacy was just a secluded corner of the loft tucked behind a jutting-out wall. His lack of retreat, a place to escape all the stress of wolvlihood, made Stiles pity him a little. Plus, he had nothing to signify the room as his own. She was looking for a subscription to The Henley Herald, or some massive work out equipment and a mirror (come on, look at the abs on the guy, he deserved to admire himself). Sure, a stack of books sat in the corner, but they all had titles about myths and legends of Lycans. Diagrams on the Darach and the Alphas' movement patterns littered the walls and torn up, bloody clothes piled high next to his bed. The guy literally never got a break from his life. She would actually be sort of proud of him if he had some Play Boys tucked underneath his pillow. At least he would get some kind of relief. But no luck there. It felt like Derek's wolf world was constantly on his shoulders.

With a sigh of successful scavenging, startling her out of her perusing, Derek returned, a small white box clutched in his hand. Silently, he sat down on the mattress next to her, staring confused at its lid.

"Not many times we actually need to use this."

He popped open the top and combed through a very limited array of bandages and gauze. A travel-sized bottle of hydrogen peroxide appeared in his hand, and Stiles cringed. Using a hand towel, the werewolf clumsily poured half the bottle onto the rag, earning a snort from her nose.

"Throw me a bone on this? I'm a beginner."

Stiles raised her eyebrows, seriously questioning how he could not see the humor in that statement.

With a "are we doing this?" look in his eyes, he determinedly pressed the cloth to the body art on her back.

"Son of a motherfreaking-"

She bit her knuckles as he dabbed around the wound, removing any bacteria. The sizzling from the chemicals stung so hard her head spun. "Dammit, that crap burns!"

"Well, next time, don't go cruising around in that crime against automobiles at 2 am, begging to be an alpha pack's bitch." He muttered under his breath.

"That car has character. And her name is Lela."

"I can't believe you named your car after a Star Wars Character."

"I can't believe you knew it was from Star Wars."

Stiles took the questionable attempt at conversation as a brooding werwolf's shot at comforting her. She decided to, as he put it, throw him a bone (seriously, that is too hilarious) and did her best to hold back her outbursts.

The treatment fell into a strange silence as Derek finished sterilizing the scratches, even patching up some older injuries, and found a clean swatch of gauze to put on top of the open wound. Her open wound. Her tattoo. Stiles sure wished that this tattoo would wondrously heal like Scott's. She didn't have any self-sacrificing story about a still-loved ex that made girls swoon. No, just an idiot decision to not wait for her dad after work because she wanted to grab some forbidden curly fries. From the vibe she was getting off of Derek, he was feeling the same regret. Or maybe he was just tired of having to take care of her annoying problems along with his own. She couldn't tell. But she did know his coarse fingers were surprisingly gentle as he taped the bandage on, lightly pressing it to her skin. After tossing the garbage into the trash, Derek put the kit away and brought her the previously offered henley.

"You have this in a Batman print?"

"Funny." He muttered.

Stiles grinned, gently tugging the worn fabric over her head.

By the time her visibility returned, Derek had left. Or at least she thought.

"What are you doing down there?" She scooted closer to the edge of the mattress, spotting the top of his head. He was propped up against the bed frame, arms crossed over his chest, eyes on the entryway.

"Go to bed Stiles."

"I'm not going anywhere, you know. You said it yourself that this was the safest place to be." She heard a low howl nearby, but felt the familiar warmth of a friendly call. It was an assurance that she was protected, but a warning to enemies to run away with their tails between their legs. "and I feel pretty safe." She grabbed the lone pillow from the head of the bed and flopped it down at the foot of the mattress. She didn't know why, but this Derek, the one whose face was lit only by the scattered rays of daybreak rising through the window, felt gentler. Safe enough to approach without a yard stick. "So it's all right, dude. Get some sleep. I'll be here in the morning."

He didn't move from his spot on the floor, so Stiles poked his shoulder.

"Come on, sourwolf. Sleepy time."

"Did Cora ever talk to you about pack ties?" Derek's pale green gaze never strayed from the doorway, "about the bonds between its members?"

"Yeah," she replied, slightly confused, "How when you lose one, it feels like you've lost a limb?"

He didn't meet her eyes, but nodded. "The night Scott called and told me you hadn't come back from the Sheriff's station, when we found all of that blood in the front seat." His eyebrows came together as if he was torn apart. "We thought you were dead, Stiles."

She would never learn of Derek's behavior those 14 days. The increasing irritation when Scott and Issac would come back after hours of nonstop searching, only to return empty handed. The restlessness during pack meetings and the little movement he made towards the entrance anytime the door opened. His frustration grew worse day-by-day, despite refusing to admit to the fact of how worried he was. This was Stiles. Scott's little pal whose life he had committed to ruining since the moment they met. There was no way he would care.

But it was obvious.

Her disappearance was crushing him.

Still, he has adapted enough in his life to hide those feelings from the only one who needed to see them the most. The only thing Stiles saw was that he carried a deep, painful regret.

This side of Derek wasn't one Stiles liked. She saw it with Boyd and Erica, how he seemed to hate himself and every part of him that ever turned under the full moon.

"What does that have to do with pack ties?" She asked.

"When I thought that you died, it felt like a small bit of me disappeared. "He coughed, scrunching his eyebrows and staring at the hallway. "Not a limb, but maybe a few fingers or something." He sighed, like what he was going to say was a burden. "You're important to me, idiot, so don't go getting abducted by lunatics again. Please."

Stiles swore she had her standing in the Hale Pack figured out. Derek called her if he needed some weird ass werewolf lore investigated. She stood in to referee pack training. Hell, sometimes she even cooked the wolfed-out brats dinner.

Then, when Scott had his whole "true alpha" episode, she immediately assumed she'd follow him. The best friend. It never occurred to her that she could still be needed elsewhere. And really, how was she supposed to when Derek basically threatened her well-being everyday of his god given life? The dude was definitely throwing her some mixed signals. But Stiles knew he couldn't help it. So, she did the only thing she could think of.

"**What** are you doing?"

Her fingers brushed through his black hair, stroking through the surprisingly soft strands. With her free hand she fluffed the pillow, tucked the blanket in around her, and made sure to toss the corner onto Derek's shoulder. She didn't know if werewolves got cold, but she thought she'd be courteous all the same. Nothing about this moment was normal, and she could see walking up in a dumpster being a strong possibility, but she didn't care.

"Thanks, sourwolf." For saving her, for always keeping an eye on Scott, for not turning into one of those psychopathic Alphas when things seemed an awful lot like hell.

Before Stiles shut her eyes, she watched his drift closed. A tired smile hid behind the permanent stubble on his cheeks.

"Goodnight, Stiles."

"I don't know what he sees in her." Cora leaned against the wall in the loft, arms crossed over her chest. Her entire demeanor screamed shut out, as if she would rather be locked in a room with the entire Alpha Pack alone than where she was at right now. "The brat isn't even good for anything. Just keeps getting in the way."

"You mean like last month, how she jumped in front of a radical hunter and took a wolfsbane bullet for you?" Isaac watched, satisfied, as Cora flushed red and turned away. "Yup, always getting in the way, definitely worthless. Might as well just kill her now."

"Now, now. " Peter mockingly scolded the two, strolling in through the front entrance in his signature v-neck. He nodded to Isaac, who promptly jumped out the window onto the fire escape for his watch. Hours had passed since they found Stiles, leading them to agree that only one person needed to keep watch at a time. Besides, Derek hadn't let them rest in 2 days. Even werewolves need some beauty sleep. Except for Peter, of course. The uncle approached Cora and took a place on the wall to her right. She was already irritated by his condescending tone. "You'd be surprised at what use she has for us."

Cora didn't even try to hide her confusion. She peeked her head into the adjoining room and groaned, spotting the current topic of conversation. She, reluctantly, admitted that the reckless heroism the girl had could hold its benefits, but other than that, and her skill for making decent grilled cheese, Cora just didn't get it.

"I was talking to the veterinarian at his office a few nights ago." This shocked her, as she didn't think her uncle ever left the house, except to cause trouble.

"He brought up Jackson and the whole Kanima incident. Particularly the night of the rave. You know us men and our gossip." He waited, expecting the girl to chuckle and was met with a bored stare. He coughed, continuing. "And he mentioned Stiles' curious little talent." Peter pushed off the fence and walked to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of jack. It was common knowledge werewolves don't get drunk, but he still enjoyed the taste. Plus, it was sometimes profitable to be sober while others were not. He poured himself a glass. "Called it, being a 'Spark'." He waved the cup, as if it were idiotic. "Stupid name really...but not inaccurate."

Now Cora was lost. And her face showed it.

Peter sighed. He hated explaining things.

"You notice how when Stiles is around, things always seem more…intense?" A loud snore echoed from the bedroom and Peter snorted.

Cora nodded, annoyed. She assumed it was the kid's ADHD or something. She never took enough Adderall. Or, if she did, Stiles' senses were so sharp, she noticed the pea-sized stain on the black shirt you bleached out last month. She really wanted him to get to the point, sick of his habit of prolonging an answer with frustratingly vague and misleading clues.

"Yeah… its not the ADHD." He came back, taking a swig of his drink and sank down on the couch, pushing away Stiles' flannel with mild disgust. "When she's around, everything cranks up to about 100. She starts hanging out with Lydia more, the girl sees dead people around every corner. Scott turns into a full-blown alpha. And if you look really closely, Derek isn't getting beat to crap quite so bad in every fight that comes his way." He looked up at her, a disappointed look in his eyes. "I mean, seriously, has he ever considered UFC training?"

"And how does this make me not want to threaten ripping her in half?"She asked, feeling this story was getting to be just another one of her uncle's pointless rambles.

He cleared his throat, clearly irritated by the constant interruptions to his dramatic monologue, prompting Cora to roll her eyes. "Stiles, despite being human, stirs up the raw supernatural abilities of others. Her presence inspires power. She's a 'spark'." He shrugged, draping his arm across the back of the chair, and shifting when a spring poked him in the back. "Part of the reason why the Alphas took her. They notice potential."

Cora sighed, leaning around the corner. The afternoon sun was already peaking in the sky, but Stiles and Derek were dead asleep. Her thin fingers draped lazily over the mattress, but remained intwined in his hair, and it was hard to tell, but she could see her brother had curled his body to the right, bringing himself closer to the girl on the bed. Cora couldn't decide if it was subconscious or intentional.

"And Derek sees it too?" She whispered.

"Not yet." Peter finished off the bottom of his glass, inspecting the remaining ice cubes, probably thinking he looked impressive. "But he's drawn to Stiles. And that's **exactly** why he pushes her away. He refuses to admit to the power of love. You know, " he glanced in Cora's direction, "cause of the whole hot older girlfriend murdering his family and the evil druid using him to commit human sacrifice. The kid's grown up with serious trust issues."

"So what?" She asked, joining him on the couch. "We just wait until he finally realizes he's constantly threatening the life of his possible future mate?"

"Give him time, my sweet niece." Peter lifted his arms and crossed them behind his head, letting his eyes close. "He'll get something right eventually."


End file.
